


After tonight

by vulnerable_bead



Series: From Russia, because of love [9]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Husbands in love, Infidelity, Multi, a closure and a threat, a discreet witness, a lot of dancing, a mother-in-law, a very public kiss, a wife a mother a hotel manageress, bittersweet memories, fun fluff and smut, hopes for the married life, in the moonlight, private moments, schooldays' friendships, women over fifty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-05-31 18:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15124931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vulnerable_bead/pseuds/vulnerable_bead
Summary: Yuri Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov got married on Saturday, 30th June 2018, in Vancouver. (Essentially, yesterday.) Now their wedding reception is in full swing. The guests are having a good time, the young husbands are busy being happy, and the new mother-in-law is lost in her thoughts - until she is interrupted by an old friend.





	1. THEY DID IT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [joolita](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=joolita).



> This is an episode I had been telling myself, very emphatically, that I would NOT write, even though I saved the date - yesterday - a long time ago. But then my Significant Otter, joolita, for whom this entire series has been written, expressly asked for a new voice to be heard, and for some incidents to happen. What could I do? Especially that in return I was promised an illustration to this episode. So I wrote it. She delivered; her artwork is embedded in Chapter 2.

He was a little over eighteen when one day I went to his room, wanting some small service from him, and I heard him crying. I knocked and when he didn’t answer, I pulled the door aside. He was kneeling, curled up on himself, on the bed, sobbing helplessly.

‘I’m not enough,’ he croaked when he saw me. ‘I’m not enough!’

I took him in my arms and he clung to me, his whole body shaking.

He cried for a long time, and I was stroking his hair.

‘I’ll never be enough,’ he concluded sadly, his tears spent. I told him he couldn’t know that, but I could see he was not persuaded. I wiped his face and took him downstairs to do whatever it was that I needed from him.

About a month later, in the course of a single day, I learnt that Yuko was pregnant and that Yuri had signed a contract with an American coach and was leaving.

He was gone five years. I missed him badly. I could guess life was hard on him. His e-mails were unfailingly optimistic, but – I know false cheer when I see it. He began to study at university. This added to his problems. He was hard-working, yes, but not academically gifted, and he failed more than a few exams. His sports career seemed to be progressing, though. Until Sochi, where all went wrong.

I was so angry with myself I told him some people from town came to our place to watch him skate. I should have held my tongue. Afterwards, they were compassionate, but his failure was obvious and not much could be said.

Yuri graduated and returned home. He had some professional qualifications now and he mentioned that he might start looking for a job. His future hung in the balance. 

And then the tall, white-haired _gai-jin_ arrived, quite out of the blue, and began to coach him, and it quickly became clear to me that he not only considered him enough; he considered him the best. The man fell for him so hard it was laughable. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. He was trying to hide it – mostly, I think, in order not to startle Yuri – but he was blazing with it.

His restraint paid off; Yuri relaxed around him. One day I saw them standing together under the _sakura_ , Yuri talking animatedly, his face lifted, his back straight, the _gai-jin_ leaning to him, nodding, obviously interested in what he had to say, and – Yuri was looking straight into his startlingly blue eyes.

After that I began to observe him closely. I had a premonition this man may become a fixed element of our household and I wanted to get some idea of who he was.

I was surprised to learn he was only twenty-eight; with his greying hair he seemed older. I was equally surprised to see that he had very good manners. He was clean. He was not loud. _He ironed his own shirts._ He was attentive to us and sensitive to the rhythms of our house; he fitted in easily. His attempts at communication were funny but they worked. And maybe I am selfish, but, well, he won a mother’s heart by making her son happy, but he won the heart of a tired wife of a hotel owner by offering his help whenever he could. Unasked.

It started with the door to one of the cupboards in the kitchen. A hinge had worked loose and I could never get round to tightening it. Of course, neither Toshiya nor Yuri noticed. Victor, taking out some bowls, did.

‘ _Warui des’_ ,’ he said. I was surprised, yes, it was not good that the door was close to falling off, but I thought it was a little insensitive of him to comment on this. 

‘ _Ka_ ,’ added Victor as an afterthought and then I understood. He was asking if this was a bad thing. Yuri had explained to me that he found our way of asking questions hard to grasp. I confirmed with a _hai_ and Victor said, ‘ _Wakarimasu_.’

The hinge was tightly screwed on, and the door as good as new, before the day ended.

He did not ask again after that, he just went and mended anything that he saw as _warui_ ; a loose board in the floor, a leaking tap, a chipped wall that had long cried for a little plaster. He liked things neat. It was good to have another pair of hands at home, and that belonging to a young, strong man who was handy with tools.

I decided to test him a little. I began to carp to Toshiya about the shed, which for a long time had been a disgrace, its roof a sieve. My husband grumbled a bit, for the weather was hot, but what could he do. And, well, Victor not only volunteered his help the moment he understood what the commotion was about, but he actually cut Yuri some slack at the rink so that he could join in. The three of them worked away and I was bringing them lemonade and thick slices of watermelon, which they ate with dirty hands. And at some point, coming with the next load of both, I saw that Victor had taken off his shirt. The muscles on his back played as he worked and Yuri was very discreetly staring. I couldn’t help but appreciate. It was beautifully done. Roofing the shed is such a hot work, eh? Victor, you sly thing.

It was amazing how soon the _gai-jin_ became first Victor, then Vic-chan, to us.

I decided to help a little. It is not that I _did_ anything; I certainly did not say one word to either. But I removed obstacles (by which I mean, mostly, myself and my husband from their way). I told my daughter very firmly not to interfere. I set Yuri tasks which they could share and sent them on errands together. Some of those were deliberately chosen so that my son could shine; for instance he was an expert at selecting fish at the portside market. All in all, between Victor and me, we didn’t give Yuri time to mope. None at all.

By autumn it was obvious to me that our stratagems had worked; my son was smitten.

In fact, they were both absurdly in love. They were still shy about it but, well, they couldn’t hide it. They chased each other with their eyes, each turning his gaze away when the other was about to look. And their hands. Even when they were not touching – which they were, all the time, quite unconsciously – their hands were constantly reaching, palms open, wanting, needing.

Then one day I looked out of the first-floor window into the yard and I saw them standing there, kissing. Victor had his arms around Yuri and Yuri’s hands were tangled in Victor’s hair, his fingers clenching and unclenching. They were totally lost in each other.

When they broke the kiss, they exchanged a few words, they both laughed and they rushed away somewhere, holding hands.

All this made me a little sad; I can’t deny. I am approaching the age when the prospect of grandchildren grows appealing. But my son had chosen a different path for himself. I could accept that. If this constitutes happiness for him, so be it. I just prayed that the white-haired _gai-jin_ would not break his heart. But I saw that he was gentle with him, genuinely caring, and I dared to hope for the best.

Around midwinter they started sharing a room. I could guess what they were doing there, Yuri’s high, breathy, mewling cries and Victor’s groans left no doubt in the matter. I worried for a while, especially since, well, the internet proved a little _too_ informative, but seeing how they waited for the night, both of them, and how glowing they would be in the mornings, I concluded that no harm was being done to either.

They left Japan in the spring, Victor first, Yuri a few weeks after, to share a home in Sankt Petersburg. I started to visit the temple more often than I used to. I spent a small fortune on incense.

Over the following year Yuri wrote little, he was never a reliable correspondent, but the echoes that reached me were reassuring. Then there was some trouble. I gathered that people in Russia were not as ready to turn a blind eye to two boys sharing a life as we are, but I was never told what exactly happened and I did not ask. This was a thing they had to deal with on their own.

They did, and how. They returned to us and the moment they walked through the door Victor asked me for Yuri’s hand in marriage (a year has passed and the story is still making the rounds in Hasetsu). Barely able to believe this was really happening, I gave my son to him, to love and to cherish.

And now they are walking into the reception hall, the Russians are showering them with some grain – it looks very nice, actually, golden granules arcing in the air and sliding down their clothes, and they are both radiant and so immensely proud of themselves.

They did it.

***

We did it. We said the vows, we exchanged the rings, we signed the papers, and we are husbands now.

Yaah! I have a husband! And that husband my loveliest, my most amazing Yuri! I feel like jumping up and down screaming with joy, but of course I do not, because please, I’m Victor Nikiforov, I don’t do such things. Not in public. Maybe later. When I’m alone. I may just let out a scream or two then.

Yuri is acting demure by my elbow, but I know him; it’s all for show. Lowered eyes and rosy blushes won’t fool me – he is smug as hell, bursting with pride.

We walk the gauntlet of skaters showering us with wheat. It is a Russian custom and I’m not sure if the rest of the world knows it, but the multinational bunch is game for anything, they join in enthusiastically. At the end Yakov and Lilya are waiting for us with bread and salt.

When a few days ago I asked them to officiate at this small rite, Lilya balked.

‘No way!’ she shrieked. ‘That suggests I’m old enough to be your mother!’

She is. That’s why a tactful answer to this presented a challenge even for me.

Fortunately, she let herself be persuaded and now they hand us a tray with a big, round, golden loaf, a little bowl of salt beside it. We kiss the bread reverently. Another Russian custom and out of the corner of my eye I see the Japanese group watching with interest. The other thing on the tray are two glasses of vodka. We down them energetically and smash them on the floor, fine crystal breaking into countless shards.

The bread will be cut and distributed on the tables. The salt is discreetly put away for us to take home and add to our salt box, making a wish that this, not tears, is the only salt of our married life.

The international bunch have things to stare at, too. Yuri’s mother is resplendent in a black ceremonial robe, which I am told is called a _tomesode_ , and the most formally tied _obi_. In fact, all the Japanese team are wearing traditional costumes.

This includes the groom. A few months ago Yuri asked me if I would mind him getting married in his Japanese clothes, the kimono, hakama and the silver-grey haori. ‘They are as good as new’, he said anxiously. ‘I’ve worn them only once.’ He was obviously worried I would object, he knew I had my heart set on bespoke suits for both of us. But I was delighted. I had loved that costume the minute I saw it, and I loved him in it. Besides, I could see how proper this was. I was marrying a Japanese, his family and friends in attendance, and it would be a nice bow to his heritage. 

In the end, we agreed we would have the suits made as planned and he would change during the reception, because Japanese clothes are not made for dancing and we both intended to dance till we dropped that night. For his, we selected a soft dove grey and mine is in the same colour but two tones darker, which creates an interesting effect; the fabric and cut are identical.

So, the first toast drank and the guests seated and busy tucking into food, we slip out to our room.

I help Yuri out of his clothes, folding them neatly. His suit is hanging on the wardrobe door, all the paraphernalia at the ready. I try to hand him his shirt. No go. 

‘A shower! Please!’ begs my obsessively clean Japanese, getting out of his underwear and flashing his butt at me, quite unwittingly, as he does so.

He disappears, locking the bathroom door behind him.

Aw, this was below the belt. I am so hot for him now that I can barely keep myself from banging on the door, howling for my man. Especially since I have a suspicion bordering on certainty that after the reception we will be in no shape for fucking.

I throw off my clothes. I grab the lube I had secreted in the drawer of the beside table, just in case. Normally we use olive oil, but here it would be just too much fuss.

He emerges from the bathroom and sees me there, naked and ready, my erection glistening. His eyes go wide.

‘Vitka!’

‘Would you like to check if it feels different with a husband?’ I ask.

A moment of hesitation… and he runs to me. He jumps up. I catch him. My arms go under his knees, his legs around me. He crosses his feet on my back, just below my shoulder blades. He is incredibly supple and I am very strong, such acrobatics come effortlessly to us. I interlace my fingers on his back to give him secure support and, well, in this position he is so nicely spread that all I have to do is lower him a little and I feel my cock sink into his tightness. Then I give a push. He gives a gasp.

It is a quick fuck, but a very rewarding one.

We are downstairs before anyone has started to wonder where the hell the grooms got to and we begin to circulate. The comments refer solely to Yuri’s changed costume. Only Chris, who can recognise a sated bottom when he sees one (he sees one often enough in his own mirror), casts one look at him and mutters to me, ‘Good job, _mon vieux_ ’.

Oh yeah, this will be a night to remember.

***

The newlyweds are back, Yuri looking splendid in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. It must be Victor’s doing, my boy never had the taste to dress this well. We the Japanese women go upstairs to change into less restrictive clothes, except my daughter, who wants to stay in her lilac _tomesode_ ; she will not dance. Yuko is a little unhappy, she is quite heavy now, but she says she intends to dance anyway and changes into a loose dress that suits her very well. To think I had once hoped to have her as my daughter-in-law… How strangely did the life unfold.   

I have been warned (thank you, my loyal son) that Victor is planning to ask me for a dance. At first I was in two minds about it. We do not dance at weddings and the whole idea seemed strange to me. Also, I enjoyed dancing when I was a girl, but I have not done it since I got married. It’s been more years that I care to think. But I was told that the tune is going to be a slow, gentle waltz and, having given it a thought, I am no longer worried. Victor will know how to lead me so that I don’t make a fool of myself.

***

We start the dancing with a few bars of a tango, a very well-behaved one as far as our tangos go. It is not the one with which Yuri seduced me in Sochi, because no-one remembers what it was and the sound in the recordings is too indistinct. Pity. In any case, we quickly part, Yuri to grab Phichit’s girlfriend Sumalee, myself to snatch Lilya from under Yakov’s arm. The latter very adroitly seizes the passing Minako and follows me. Chris approaches Sara. Michele tries to frighten him away, he is not yet completely over his somewhat disturbing protectiveness, but menacing stares never worked on Giacometti. Phichit cuts in, stealing Sumalee from Yuri, and all three banter happily. Yura starts twirling on his own, Otabek joins him and soon their antics tempt the rest of the young generation to the dance floor. The Nishigori triplets, now eight going on eighty, dance the tango as a kind of a three-person gallopade. This would be terrible if not for the fact that all three of them have a perfect sense of rhythm and it actually looks interesting.

Leo de la Iglesia has brought a girlfriend, a quiet, doe-eyed Helene. I gather they have got together fairly recently and this is the first big gathering they attend as a couple. I must remember to shield them from the more outrageous manifestations of the skater high spirits.

Mr Morooka, my coach Gerry Parnell and Ciao-ciao are sitting at the table, deep in conversation. I’d bet they are talking shop. Further down I see my father-in-law sharing a glass with Yura’s grandfather, Nikolai Petrovich. I feel a passing curiosity as to in what language they might be toasting each other, but Yuri and I decided to leave this Babel of a gathering to fend for themselves, only asking everybody to help out whenever they saw some translation was needed.

Phichit and Sumalee rush past me, heading towards their seats, Yuri right behind them.

‘Hey, Vitka, Vitka!’ calls the latter, seeing me. ‘Ready? Let’s get the ladies, then.’

The second dance is, traditionally, for the groom and his new mother-in-law, the bride and her father-in-law. Here, of course, the custom needs to be adapted, and not only because we are both men.

‘I’d love to dance with your mum,’ I told Yuri a few days ago. ‘But… you? I have no mother for you to dance with.’

He looked at me and smiled enigmatically.

‘Don’t worry. I know who it shall be.’

***

He was an early walker and a late talker. And he always danced. When he heard music, he just couldn’t stay still. I think he danced while still in my belly. I remember blowing raspberries on his fat tummy, and his squeals of delight. Has it really been twenty-six years?

Oh, he was a sweet baby. But not an easy child. Timid yet ambitious, he seemed perpetually angry with himself for failing to reach his own standards; there was something self-destructive in his inability to feel satisfied with his accomplishments. He was irritable and often sulky. In the kindergarten, they wrote him down as an underachiever. I was very worried.

But then we had a stroke of tremendous luck. When he was about five, my old friend ended her ballet career and returned home to open her studio. She cast one look at him dancing and said, ‘Give him to me’.

A few months later she told me to enroll him into a skating course. Just as an extra workout, no more. Then one day she came to visit.

‘I’ll tell you the truth, Hiroko-chan,’ she said. ‘Your boy is the best pupil I have. He is extremely talented. But he will never be a professional dancer. Ballet is a team effort. This is not for him. He is a lone player. When he performs solo, he shines. A crowd paralyses him. So take my advice: shift his career to skating. Men’s singles. If you do, the boy will make history.’

I did what she told me. Yuri switched to the rink. But she did not abandon him. Not only was he always welcome at her studio; he got his own key to it when he was just twelve. This was the year he won his first international medal, a bronze in China. We went to meet him at the airport and I remember him running towards us, waving his medal, screaming, ‘Mother! Sensei! Look! I did great!’, his eyes shining. He ran into my arms, the medal giving me a solid whack on the ear, and as I was hugging him, I glanced at my friend. ‘Not bad, Yuri-kun’, she huffed, discreetly wiping away a tear.

As a teenager, he spent most evenings at her studio. This was where he found the solitude he seemed to crave. He did his homework in the tiny office at the back. His grades improved.

I was not sure my son realised how much he owed her. But I misjudged him. Because, just as I accept Victor’s hand and he leads me onto the dance floor, Yuri makes me extremely proud by bowing in front of his first teacher and most loyal friend, Okukawa Minako.

***

Thanking my mother-in-law for the dance, I kiss her hand. This is a _very_ old-fashioned gesture, rarely used even in Russia, but it seems fitting. Just this once. Because I like her very much and she, too, has always been extremely fair towards me. I will never know how much hand she had had in bringing Yuri and me together, but I have my suspicions.

To my surprise, she raises her hand a fraction as I lean down to it and makes a little bow, all of it with perfect poise, as if she were born doing this. Wow, isn’t she a princess. But I have long been aware who Katsuki Junior got his manners from, and his tact.

To acknowledge the wildly multi-lingual character of this wedding party, we have not one, but two ‘father’ speeches (which we begged the orators to keep short). Yuri’s father speaks in Japanese, diffidently but with obvious joy, his speech greeted with smiles from the Japanese team and a pleased blush from Yuri. I must ask him what he said. Yakov rumbles out a few gruff but surprisingly warm words in Russian. I would say he is getting soft in his old age, but I can’t. Wouldn’t be fair. He may consider me the world’s prime prick, but he is very fond of Yuri.

There are, of course, those guests who understand neither language. My best man vowed to provide a speech for them to enjoy. I fear to think.

We circulate, sometimes together, sometimes splitting up to talk to people. Minami squeals in his customary fashion. I can’t stand the guy, I’d gladly wring his scrawny neck (he is one of the very few people that bring out the worst in me), so I am trying to steer clear of him as much as possible. I cannot, however, avoid him as I join Yuri for a Japanese wedding ritual which I like very much: distributing the _okaeshi_ , thank-you gifts that the newlyweds give to the guests to remember the evening by. Yuri told me that they are usually generic; in our case, however, each little package has a name on it, the _okaeshi_ carefully chosen.

Upon receiving his – a custom-made cover for a body pillow, with Yuri in his old Lohengrin costume on one side of it, Minami in the costume made to echo Yuri’s on the other (Yuri’s idea, very out of character; let it be noted I was against it, I can already see the brat masturbating over it) – Minami grows shrill. I remove myself. He doesn’t even notice, busy gushing adoration all over my husband. It is a long while before the latter joins me at the table.

Chris delivers.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, let me make a confession. I have drunkenly propositioned a few men in my life. The approach works wonders as an introduction to a one night stand. I thoroughly recommend it. But all the more I stand in awe of the man who not only drunkenly propositioned my friend Victor, who had repeatedly declared himself a confirmed bachelor, but succeeded in seducing him – for life. To Yuri!’

Short and to the point. I can only hope that my in-laws did not understand this.

Phichit promptly reciprocates.

‘Having Yuri as a flatmate was an extremely pleasant experience. Clean, quiet, polite, fun to be with; what more could you ask? The only nuisance was the procession of hopefuls. I remember Gary from the baseball team, Luke, a nice guy, I was rooting for him, Ron, by far the handsomest, Bill, a Texan, reportedly heir to an oil tycoon, Gary number two, and Janice, certain that the boys got it wrong. There were others I can’t recall at the moment, all of them trying to get into Yuri’s pants. It was painful to watch. So I toast the man who chased this ice maiden across half the world, backed him into a corner and – well, succeeded where countless others failed. To Victor!’

Yuri hides his face in his palm, raising his glass to me nonetheless. A moment later I hear him grilling Phichit. Huh, I must do the same. Yuri’s expression is one of shock and I am dying of curiosity. I knew, _I knew_ he underestimated himself, but – to this extent? Wow. I am lucky to have broken through his defences. Besides, Phichit’s mention of getting into Yuri’s pants makes my cock twitch interestedly. Er, I think I could go another round. Is backing my husband into a corner an option?

Probably not. Eh.

Things go from bad to worse. Someone shouts ‘ _Gor’ko, gor’ko!_ ’ and the call is quickly taken up, first by the Russians, then by the whole room. This is to tell the newlyweds that the vodka is _gor’kaya_ , bitter, and needs sweetening. And the only thing that can sweeten a wedding-night vodka is a kiss.

Aw. I find myself blushing. I’ve never kissed Yuri, really kissed, fully on the mouth, in public. And now we must do it in front of everyone. I glance at him, expecting him to be as embarrassed as me, or more.

I get a shock. This shrinking violet, skittish fawn and reported ice maiden stands up and braces himself firmly, his knee on the chair. His hands cradle my head, steadying me. He looks round, a defiant ‘Are you watching?’ clear in his gaze. Then he leans down and kisses –

– and kisses – and kisses –

– and –

– kisses –

– me –

– all the way, his tongue deep in my willing mouth. I lean back. I close my eyes. My hands go to his chest, the clenching of my fingers on his shirt instinctive. Don’t stop, Yuri, oh please, don’t stop… Keep kissing me like this forever.

Everyone is counting out loud. Around fifty the wolf whistles get deafening.

Yuri releases my mouth, needing to draw breath, at sixty-seven.

‘Sweet enough?’ he calls to the guests.

His performance wins him a standing ovation.

Not from me, though. I have a mammoth hard-on and it would be an embarrassment of a lifetime if I stood up.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ I growl through clenched teeth.

He is answering congratulations, his head turned away from me, but he acknowledges my threat with a nod. Then, as he sits down, he reaches out discreetly, under the table, and rubs his knuckles against my crotch.

An orgasm gets quashed in time, but oh, the effort.

Quips continue to fly and I hope no-one noticed my sudden silence. Phew. All right, Nikiforov, get yourself under control, you’re the host here, you’ve got duties to attend to. Up!

Yuri rises at the same time and puts his hands on my shoulders.

‘Wait, Vitka,’ he says quietly. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘He changed his mind!’ yells Chris, overhearing. ‘He wants to marry me!’

My best man is not exactly _into_ Yuri, he is too loyal for that, but after his visit to Hasetsu last year he is very, _very_ appreciative of him. My fiancé turned out to be somewhat more than Giacometti expected. Because, let me give away a little secret here, Chris is an exclusive bottom. Whereas Yuri is enthusiastically versatile. And don’t forget the stamina.

The concept of pole dancing acquired a whole new meaning for Chris after that.

Er – I, too, bottomed that night. Chris took a long time recovering from shock.

No, correction: he took a long time recovering, period.

Yuri blows him a kiss.

‘Sorry, handsome, but no.’ Then he climbs on tiptoe to bring his mouth to my ear and informs me, ‘I liked it with a husband.’

He flashes his amber eyes at me and runs away, leaving me with an imbecilic grin on my face, caught halfway between a wave of delight and a return of the hard-on.

‘Hope dies last,’ says Chris sadly. But he does not let this setback get him down; he loudly demands a ‘best man with best man’ dance. Phichit, who is actually quite prim, nearly dies. Sumalee nearly dies, too. Of laughter. I love this girl.

So, I bow in front of her. She gives me her hand. We dance and I swear she is flirting with me. Not seriously, of course, but it is nice to know she considers me worth the trouble.

Then I dance with Leo’s girlfriend Helene, who, as it turns out, is a medical student. Her dancing skills are no more than average, but she is very nice. After a while I nod to Leo, signalling him to cut in, and I see Helene’s face light up when he does. I leave them to their happiness. 

Yuri is dancing with Mila, so he only smiles at me above her shoulder. I look around and I see Nikolai Petrovich, Yakov and Lilya beckoning me to join them. They start filling the glasses before I even take the first step in their direction.

‘So, Vitya, what are your plans now?’

They are not asking about our honeymoon, because they know perfectly well what it is going to be. The Japanese team are staying with us for two weeks; then we are all flying to Japan together. A few days later Nikolai Petrovich and Yura will rendezvous with Yuri and me at Fukuoka. We are going for a trip round Kyushu and southern Honshu, all the way to Tokyo, from where they will fly to Sankt Petersburg and we – back home, to Canada.

On learning this is to be our _honeymoon_ , some people say we are crazy. But we’re not. We just don’t do things the expected way. So yes, our dream trip is one made in the company of a great (if annoying) friend and an intelligent and much respected elder. Objections, anyone?

Our plans for after we return from Japan are simple.

‘To finish furnishing the house. To design our programs for the next season. To start getting to know the country. Just…’ I shrug. ‘Life, you know.’

My cool breaks and I grin, unable to hide my joy.

‘Nothing like a young husband for optimism,’ chuckles Nikolai Petrovich.

‘Not so young anymore,’ I point out.

Yakov and Lilya exchange glances and mockingly raise their glasses to me. Grown up and married, I am still a puppy to them. I sigh resignedly and ask Lilya for a dance.

Afterwards, I move on to sit with the only three guests who do not know anybody here but one another and myself (they’ve met Yuri, but briefly and at the time when his Russian was still very limited). They are Nadya and Dima, my friends from high school, the ones I tried to come out to after I returned from Japan with a boyfriend. They told me not to bother; they had known all along I was gay. They never said a word. Which was very nice of them. I came to terms with my sexuality relatively easily, especially for a Russian, but at school it would have been a problem for me to know they knew. The third person is Nadya’s husband Garik. I am very happy they came to our wedding; it took a lot of persuading. Because, you see, Nadya and Dima were at the sports school with me, but their careers never really took off. Nadya and Garik are office workers and they are not well-to-do. The same goes for Dima; he went on to study archaeology and is now in the last stages of his PhD. I begged them to accept tickets to Canada as a present from an old friend who would miss their presence very much should they refuse.

‘I have no family. I know few people outside the skating world. I would consider it a special favour… Please. Come. For old times’ sake. You were the only friends I had.’

They were reluctant at first, which did not surprise me. I just persisted. So finally they agreed and now Dima is making an enthusiastic report from excavations somewhere in the middle of a wild steppe. They have apparently discovered some fascinating _kurgan_ , burial mound, there. I listen to him with interest. Dima has always had a gift for storytelling. Then I go on to dance with Nadya. I hold her close and we chat easily. A wife and mother of two, she hasn’t aged a day since we passed our finals over a decade ago.

When the song is ending, I gather my courage. ‘I should have said this earlier, Nadyen'ka, but… Well. I mean, I may live a little further away now, but please remember I’m still one of the team, eh? If ever you need me, any of you three, just call. I will come through.’

She nods.

‘Promise?’ I make sure.

‘Promise. Nice of you to include my Garik. You don’t know him that well.’

‘Well, he is not my type, but if _you_ like him, he must be all right.’

She laughs, throwing her head back. Then she kisses me on the cheek.

‘I’m glad to see you so relaxed, Vityusha. You weren’t like this when we were young. That Japanese of yours must be quite a character to have changed you so.’

I missed the Russian candour.

Oh, it is so good to have them all here, in one place, people whom I like (except the shrill brat) and who like me, who are happy for me, who are happy for Yuri, who kept their fingers crossed for us and who cheered us on. I know I will never have them like this again and I want to remember every moment of tonight.

That’s why I try to drink less than I would have otherwise.

My restraint gets noticed.

‘So you drink like a Canadian now, eh?’ asks Yura.

‘Which is how, if I may ask?’

‘Not half like a Russian. What have they done to you?’

‘Married me off. I am a responsible adult now. _Vashe zdarovye_!’

My declaration is greeted with hoots. Only Georgiy sighs. Getting married is his greatest dream. I have a feeling that by now he would accept any girl simply for the feel of a ring on his finger. I sometimes worry about him.

Mr Morooka has left the two coaches, bowed deeply in front of Mother and planted himself beside her. I hope he behaves better than last night. Because yesterday we discovered an entirely new side to him.

We didn’t have a stag party, not as such. We simply invited the guys to our house. We ordered pizza – and then more pizza – and we put a very limited amount of alcohol on the table. We are a bunch of (grudgingly admitted) friends and we don’t need drink to have a good time. So, we chatted the evening away, mostly reminiscing about our various defeats. The evening quickly developed into a Youtube party – ‘Hey, look at this! It’s a miracle the ice didn’t crack’ – ‘Don’t remind me, my butt’s still hurting’ – and we had fun while staying mostly sober.

Katsuki Senior was invited, but he excused himself. He cited jet lag as the reason, but I think he might have been a little intimidated by the amount of young, exuberant maleness (yes, I’m looking at you, Giacometti) in the company. Takeshi braved us and did not regret it. Ciao-ciao might have a little; he got his share of teasing. Dima and Garik seemed slightly overwhelmed.

The last man present who was not a skater was Mr Morooka. He fit in, though, because he knows us all, sometimes uncomfortably well. Some of the coverage we watched was with his commentary. At some point he switched the sound off and provided a new and entirely unexpected one. His English is very, er, fluent. We rolled on the floor laughing, but I am glad the party was men only. The language he used! Yura could learn from him. And the speed!

A sample. Yuri’s free program at the Cup of China.

‘Recently Mr Katsuki has been living with his coach Victor Nikiforov and we are expecting wonders from him now that he is finally getting laid…’

‘I wasn’t!’ screams Yuri. ‘It was only after…! Argh.’ He’s realised what he has done.

‘…sorry, we are learning from a reliable source he is not getting laid yet but very soon will be, and this will certainly affect the quality of his performance, I’m not talking of an aching posterior here, of course, although…’ Here he switches to Japanese, I hear the phrase _Roshia-jin-no_ , so he is speaking about some thing belonging to a Russian – or Russians? – and a word or two later Takeshi roars out with laughter. Yuri curls up on the couch, his face crimson.

Also, he glances at me. In fact, he glances at, roughly, my pubic zone. I give him a hard stare and shake my head, my expression as censorious as I can get it. He has the decency to look guilty.

‘While we are on the subject of pains in the ass,’ continues Mr Morooka happily, ‘watch this…’ He switches to very old footage from a press conference where I roundly criticised the Figure Skating Federation of Russia for being, as I may have put it, _tverdolobye_ , pigheaded, hardliners. I took issue with some rules which today I don’t even remember.

‘Oh, fuck!’ I yell. I was twenty-three, a world champion for the first time, and a firebrand. Also youthful, my face thinner and my hair thicker.

‘A young and virtually unknown skater Mr Nikiforov is being expressly told to shut his mouth by the indomitable coach Yakov D. Feltsman…’

A howl from the ex-young skater, cheers for Yakov in the background.     

The ladies were having a good time in their own company. I know Minako had made some plans, but I did not enquire.

Yuri is dancing with all the young Nishigoris at the same time. They look fabulous together, their impromptu sequences intricate, almost balletic. Yuko and Takeshi are proudly watching the performance.

Some cruel (and unidentified) soul asks the DJ for the Theme of King JJ. It comes, preceded by a dedication ‘to our resident Canadian’. The entire bunch gallops to the dance floor to celebrate our aversion to the man. 

‘Hey, Victor! Skate to this next year!’ yells Yura. ‘JJ will have a haemorrhage!’

He really has it in for JJ. I almost pity the bastard, Yura’s tongue gets sharper and sharper, and as he has grown slightly more mature, his wit is of better quality than it used to.

JJ was invited, by the way, but declined, citing prior engagements. He sent a bottle of very good wine, though. Nice of him. I hope it’s not poisoned.

The other two who declined are Guang-Hong, held up by some super-important exams, and Emil, retired now, who has landed some exceptionally good job and cannot quit it. He invited us to Prague instead. We’ll certainly go, next spring maybe.  

One tune turns out to be a super-fast quickstep. It is not a very popular dance and the floor grows momentarily empty. And then one pair shoots from behind the crowd, moving with lightning speed, and takes possession of the floor. And it is no-one else but my husband, with Lilya on his arm.

She is easily the best female dancer in the room tonight and he – he is a demon in human form. They slide around smoothly, as if they had danced together all their life, their motion oozing energetic seductiveness. Out of the corner of my eye I see Yakov looking at them with an oddly yearning expression. Averting my gaze to grant the man his privacy, I notice Mother watching Yuri, stunned disbelief painted all over her face. I don’t think she’d realised what a dancer he is. I am only glad there is no pole here; she might not recover from _that_.

Chris bemoans the fact. Then he stops, as Minako grabs him for the next dance. She has always been into him, very platonically, of course, but openly and quite unashamedly. He is not averse. He likes being admired.

Yuri walks Lilya to her place and sits down beside her, obviously wishing to continue talking to her. Because yes, he is one of those rare dancers who can talk (read: flirt) while dancing. They laugh and raise a glass of vodka to each other. Yakov joins them and they banter, all three of them. A few chairs down Mother looks ready to faint. She has just discovered her son is a monster dancer and now she is finding out he speaks Russian well enough to chat with the natives.

Watching her astonishment, I feel like a cat who got the cream. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Katsuki Yuri, my husband.

Yuri leaves the Russians and goes off to dance with Yuko. They are a little awkward, because they are really a threesome there, but such an excellent lead as Yuri can deal with a pregnant belly getting in the way and they are obviously having fun. The triplets, expressly forbidden to take photos, got bored and went to bed around eleven, so their mother can relax.

Incidentally, Phichit got the same ban. He grumbled, but finally caved in when a general rule of ‘no photos’ was instituted. Photographs are being taken by a professional and they will be very strictly for my approval. I am older than the rest of our bunch, I don’t share their obsession with the social media, the Instagram is a useful tool for me, but not a place to show off my private life, and with everyone having a good time the whole thing could get out of control. The only journalist allowed on the premises is Mr Morooka; later, if he so wishes, he will be allowed to sell the story. So, after some discussion, all the guests, not only the young generation, agreed to leave their phones in their rooms and for once to have fun in the here and now.

There was one exception to this rule, but only at the ceremony. Yura, of course. But then, he is a professional now, too, an excellent album, published last winter, under his belt. He has already had an exhibition at an indie gallery in Peter and his portraits sold well.

At the current moment, however, his photographic gear has been put away and Yura is steadily getting plastered. Lilya is looking daggers at him, but he is diligently ignoring her. He turned eighteen three months ago, he has the right to, etc. He told us that. He also told Otabek what he thinks about his not pouring him often enough. The Kazakh looked at him stonily, the ‘who am I to stand guard over you, if you want to get shitfaced, do’ clear in his eyes, and began to pour. With Yura’s stick-thin body it won’t be long before he slides under the table, I think, but I can rest assured the Kazakh will look after him. He’s a good friend.

Yura grandfather is smiling benignly from afar. He is a retired engineer, he probably doesn’t know the term ‘a rite of passage’, but he understands the concept. Yura needs something to remember this night by, and unfortunately there’s no-one here that would dare to take his virginity. That would have been the best, but, ah well, one can’t have everything. Let it, therefore, be the first true hangover of his life.

Mila is egging him on.

Yuri walks Yuko back to her seat, looks round, sees me, and his face lights up. He rushes to me and I run to him.

I take his hands and raise them to my lips, first one, then the other, and then once more.

‘May I have this dance?’ he asks.

‘This and any other you might wish,’ I answer, getting lost in his diamond-bright eyes.

As we turn towards the dance floor, I notice Mother looking at us with a wistful smile.

***

When I was very young, I fell in love with a wrong person. My infatuation was discovered and I became a pariah at home. My mother was especially vocal in letting me know how undutiful a daughter I had been. I spent a few weeks locked in my room. I didn’t mind. At least I could grieve for my lost darling in peace. Then I learnt that negotiations concerning my marriage were under way.

They did not go well. My family was genteel but not affluent, my father a minor clerk at the magistrate, and I had no beauty to recommend me. I was never charming, only studious. After a while it turned out that there was just one acceptable candidate whose family’s interest did not wane after the initial overtures. It was the only son of Mr and Mrs Katsuki.

This was because he was generally known to be slightly retarded and his parents could not be choosy.

He had gone to the same school as I did, but I can’t say I knew him; he was five years older than me. As a pupil, he was known to be an underachiever. He was not bullied, but neither was he accepted in any circle of friends. No wonder, really; he was too nondescript to be liked by girls and he did not share the concerns of his male peers. He was to inherit a well-established hotel and he was not worried about a future job.

I had been aware of his existence, because when I was at school he moved on the very far edge of my own circle, but when I learnt I was to marry him, I discovered I could not recall his face.

He was simply invisible.

After we were married, I found out the same was true at home. He was diligent in his duties, which involved much of the hotel maintenance work, but he crept about the house, head down, back slumped, like a silent shadow.

The first time we were left alone, husband and wife, and I embraced him gingerly, he was shivering. We did what we were expected to do that night, but it was, naturally, a disaster. We simply had very little idea of how to proceed.

After, I took on sex like another domestic duty. Not an onerous one, mind you. Toshiya was not violent. And he did not fall asleep right after, as I’ve heard many men do; he would hold me close and kiss my hair. This was nice. And slowly, little by little, in the darkness of our bedroom we began to talk to each other. At first we just whispered about simple matters to do with the household; but it was a good start.

Toshiya was not retarded. He could not speak the English language, but he understood it better than I did. He liked reading. Strangely enough, he understood politics. He even had a sense of humour; only his smile sparkled deep in his eyes, never coming out on his face.

All he was is shy, cripplingly shy. But he was shy for an entirely different reason than our son – at least I hope so; he was shy because his spirit had been crushed by Mrs Katsuki. Toshiya was so quiet because every word he said drew a vicious, extremely hurtful scolding from his mother. It’s terrible to imagine what his childhood must have been like.

My mother-in-law was a heartless hag and I don’t want to think about her. The only way I can take revenge on her, after all these years, is to sentence her to oblivion.

I was very lucky that she passed away early, carried off by pneumonia she had caught cleaning the onsen. She did not like me. Mari remembers her a little; she was her favourite. Yuri can’t. He was about two weeks old when she died. I had had a difficult time giving birth to him and I was still in bad shape; that’s why she was cleaning the onsen, not I.

After her death, Toshiya relaxed. But it was too late for him to grow sociable. For years I feared Yuri had inherited his character. They had the same timidity, the same tendency to shrink into the background. Only Toshiya was not ambitious, not in the slightest. Yuri was, and it was that much harder on him.

That is one of the reasons why I am so grateful to Victor for the way he drew my son out of his shell. The first time I heard Yuri laughing aloud, with his whole heart, the way he had laughed as a baby, I cried.

And Toshiya and I? We learnt to love each other. We are true friends now.

Which reminds me: I’d better go check on him. I can hear his voice raised in a song, and that means he is seriously drunk.

And just as I rise and turn to go, I am intercepted by my first love, Okukawa Minako.


	2. AT DAWN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young husbands are busy being happy. The mother, and mother-in-law, watches them approvingly and a little wistfully - until her attention is turned away from them by her old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode is intended to celebrate older women, as mothers, as friends, and as lovers. It has been written at the instigation of my inspiring Otter, joolita, and the illustration embedded in the text is by her, drawn for me in return (thank you!). More of her artwork can be seen at art-little-nonsense.tumblr.com.

Our guests taken care of, we stay together for a tango, a naughty one this time, some eighties dance music and a slow waltz, in which Yuri leads me, smiling into my eyes. He has me in an easy hold, his hand at the dip of my spine, steadying me comfortably beside him. Our bodies move in perfect harmony. We are so right, so right for each other, he and I.

Then we walk to the terrace, each grabbing a glass on the way, he of water, myself of white wine. He sits down sideways on the balustrade, I stand beside him, shielding him with my body, enjoying this private moment.

‘I can’t wait,’ he murmurs.

‘To do what?’

‘To undress, cuddle and sleep.’ He smiles ruefully. ‘I’m very boring, am I not? My own wedding and all I dream of is sleeping with you – not _that_ way. ’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’d like that, too. I’d probably stay awake for a while, but I’d hold you and enjoy your sleeping.’

He raises his face to me, his eyes deep, shimmering, and I lean down to his mouth.

‘Is this real?’ I say, my lips moving against his. ‘Not a dream?’

‘No,’ he whispers back. ‘You’re stuck with me for good.’

‘I could have got a worse one,’ I chuckle.

‘I could have got a better,’ he retorts. ‘At least that’s what Phichit says.’

‘Aw. This hurt!’ I pout.

‘Can I kiss it better?’

‘Yes, you can.’ I feign undoing my fly.

‘Shall I?’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘I am allowed to, you know. I’ve got in on paper.’

We look at each other.

‘Er… No.’ I back off. Thing is, at his present level of inebriation he would absolutely do it if challenged.

‘Eh,’ he sighs. ‘I was hoping.’

***

‘Hey, Bubbly!’ she calls out.

This is what she used to call me, long before either of us knew the taste of champagne. Later, when Japan’s bubble economy collapsed, the nickname began to sound ironic and she did not return to it after she came back to Hasetsu. So I’m hearing it for the first time since I was eighteen and I am a little surprised.

She plants herself beside me, hot and flushed from dancing with Chris (for, I think, the third time. Maybe fourth.).

‘How long can one admire a fine young rump?’ she asks rhetorically.

‘Forever,’ I laugh. ‘Provided its owner is ready to admire yours.’

‘This one is not. What a waste. His butt is so nicely firm.’

‘Don’t tell me you squeezed it!’

‘I _patted_ it,’ she corrects. ‘Quite by accident.’

‘Oh. Um. So… Which one is better: Victor’s or Chris’s?’

She considers the issue, her eyebrows drawn. I am waiting for the verdict.

‘On ice, Chris’s is better. Or at least more _there_. Off ice, I still have to pat Victor’s.’

‘How dare you infringe on someone else’s rights!’ I glare at her.

‘Just for the sake of intellectual curiosity!’

‘No way. Victor’s off limits.’

‘You’re keeping his butt all to yourself,’ she complains.

‘He’s _family_ ,’ I say archly. ‘He has _no_ butt.’

‘Anatomically weird, my dear, and his husband’s appreciation says you’re wrong.’

We collapse in giggles. I think the boys would be more than a little dismayed if they knew their derrières are being discussed by two ladies who are not grey only because they dye their hair.

Minako fans herself with her hand. ‘Phew, it’s hot in here. Let’s go out.’

We walk out onto the terrace. The young husbands are flirting by the balustrade, so engrossed in being together they don’t notice us. We both eye Victor’s bottom.

‘Do you think he’ll take off his jacket at some point?’ asks Minako hopefully.

‘Eh… No. He’s too proper for this. Unless our Yuri helps him out of it.’

It is nice to speak a language few people here understand.

***

Yuri’s arms go round my waist, under my jacket. I ruffle his hair. The easy familiarity of these gestures touches my heart. He yawns.

‘When will it be okay for us to go? I don’t want to offend anyone.’

Before I can answer there is a commotion inside. Mila rushes onto the terrace.

‘Yura caved in! We’re about to carry him to bed. Come, Yuri, sing him out.’

He brushes my cheek with his fingertips and runs off, his tiredness gone.

God knows from where the guys got a door, removing it from its hinges, and they have Yura sprawled on it. Otabek and Chris are standing at his head and Takeshi and Phichit at his feet. Nikolai Petrovich says a few thoughtful words.

‘One must know when to remove oneself from the scene before one needs to be removed. Rest in peace tonight, dear boy. Tomorrow, we will talk.’

The guys lift the door and the cortège moves out, led by Yuri singing a surprisingly tuneful dirge. Sumalee, Sara and Mila act as weepers. I motion to the photographer to follow them; the scene is worth immortalising. I stay behind. I’ll see what I had missed in the pictures.

I feel like being alone for a while.

***

We take a path meandering through the garden. The night is clear, we can easily see where the pale gravel contrasts with the manicured lawn. I like the small hotel the boys have chosen for their reception, distant enough from the city to seem lost in the wooded landscape, and reserved exclusively for our party for three days.

‘Your son married to a boy,’ says Minako wonderingly. ‘The world has changed since our time.’

‘True.’

We walk in silence for a while.

‘Do you wish you had married?’ I ask hesitantly. This is a ground into which we have never ventured before.

‘No,’ she answers, her voice firm. ‘All the eligible men were intolerable pricks.’

‘Ah. They often are.’

All things considered, I was lucky to have got Toshiya as a husband. He was not an intolerable prick. But neither was he a man the thought of whom would make me go light-headed with joy. This is not how arranged marriages work.

‘And none of the women was as much fun as you,’ she adds with a little laugh.

Me – fun? This is at odds with the image I have of myself, a plump lady of a little over fifty; a busy and often tired, even though usually cheerful, wife, mother and manageress of an onsen hotel. But she is probably thinking of my young self. I used to be different, long ago.

‘I wish I had stayed, Hiroko-chan. Tokyo turned out vastly overrated.’

***

I walk down the terrace steps into the garden. It is not yet dawn, but the moon is about to set and the sky in the east has begun to lighten. The first bird calls. The air is sharp.

I lean against the trunk of a weeping willow, the glass of wine still in my hand.

Yeah. I did it. I got a gold medal for Canada and a husband for myself.

I rub my thumb on my wedding band. It’s good to have it back; I missed its presence. One day, soon after the Worlds, when we stopped wearing our rings, I looked at my naked hand and it seemed disconcertingly alien.

It would be naïve of me, of course, to expect only a ‘happily ever after’ now. There’s sickness, bad luck and various misfortunes to be afraid of, and we are just human, he and I, so it is possible that at one point or another he will make me cry, or I will make him cry, and we shall struggle. But I hope we will come out of whatever awaits us together, and stronger for it.

My thoughts turn to our best men’s speeches. Yeah, we both got each other wrong at the beginning. I came to Japan certain to find the exuberant dancer from the Sochi banquet and found a quivering fawn with moral fibre of finest steel. Yuri might have thought me a magnificent ice prince condescending to coach him for no apparent reason and what he got was – well, me, Vitka Nikiforov, a very good skater, not much besides, but ready to kiss the ground he treads on.

Maybe… maybe this was what he needed to become the miracle he is. A man whom he liked and who considered him the best in the world.

Isn’t this what we all need? This one person who thinks the sun shines out of our ass.

Er… No, please, erase this image… Too late. I chuckle to myself, thinking of Yuri’s pert little rump, certainly the cutest one I’ve ever squeezed, and of all the rest of his body. Oh sweetheart, I love you. You made me secure in who I am and who I want to be. And if I helped you shed some of your fears and doubts, I can only say that it has been my pleasure.

I think that, all things considered, we made each other better men. We have grown together and – it does not end here. After tonight, we will continue growing. I’m so looking forward to the rest of my life. Because you will be in it, forever mine. My husband.

Wow.

I wish my mother could see this. Her Vitka, a married man.

Someone is approaching down the path, the gravel whispering under their feet. I move a little back, deeper into the shadow under the arching branches, because I do not wish for company.

A moment later I recognise the walkers; they are Mother and Minako. For a split second I am tempted to greet them, for I’m sure they will only answer and walk on; they are too polite to intrude on my private moment. Then I see I’ve done the right thing to hold my peace, because it is _I_ that would have intruded on _theirs_ had I revealed myself. They seem lost in thought and there is something very intimate in their quiet closeness and the shared rhythm of their footsteps.

They walk onto a little bridge and cross to the tiny island in the middle of the garden pond. The moon, already waning but still close to full, is about to go down and I see them in its pale light, its reflection shivering on the water, shattered into shards.

I feel I should return to our guests, but I stay a while longer, watching the two silhouettes, etched in silver against the velvet night, as they reach a latticed pavilion on the island. I truly have no other intention but to admire, for there is an unearthly beauty in this scene.

I am so at peace with myself.

Time to go, though. I down the last of the wine. And, just about to leave the sheltering willow, I throw a final glance towards the two women.

And I freeze.

Because I see them move towards each other and share a kiss.

***

I had been a sickly child and, much to my father’s displeasure, I went to school a year later than I should have, so I was twelve when the class rep told me to look after a new girl. The newcomer was eleven. We were still at the age when this could have made a difference, but it didn’t. A month later we swore eternal friendship to each other, exchanging the usual girlie gifts that go with such vows.

For the next five years, we were inseparable. We had identical backpacks, pencil cases, we begged our mothers to buy us matching clothes. We saw each other at school and then, in the evening, we wrote letters to each other. We exchanged them in the morning, read them after classes and answered after we parted for the night. It was as if there were four of us – two sharing their lives at school and two longing for each other when we were apart.  

We did not share everything, though. I was bookish. She wasn’t. I was hoping to go to university, the first woman of my family to do so. She was attending ballet classes and a splendid career was generally predicted for her. No wonder, because her talent, her dedication and her discipline were incredible. There was only one thing she was not ready to sacrifice for her dancing, and this was our friendship. So I, short and dumpy, looked at her with – no, not envy. Pride. Her achievements were mine. And my achievements were hers. Without the support we were lending each other, we would never have got to where we were.

And we had so much fun together. I was Bubbly, she was Senpai, even though she was younger, because it was she that came up with ideas for pranks, and then often bore the brunt.

Our friendship transformed into love so smoothly that we did not notice when it happened. Or maybe it had always been love, only it needed time to grow aware of itself.

We were stupid not to have concealed our feelings. Had we waited a year, we might have ended up in Tokyo together, studying at different places but sharing lodgings.

But as things were, all that we shared was one kiss.

 _One kiss._ It sounds so little. And yet… The memory of our mouths meeting. The sense of the universe falling into place. No, it was not little.

To this day I have no idea who saw us, who told.

Our families reacted before the rumour could spread. Mine locked me up and began to look for a husband for me. Hers, who were far more prosperous – her father was a successful building contractor, a shark in the little pond of Hasetsu – adopted a different approach. They secured a place for her at the Tokyo Ballet School, no audition required. It must have cost a fortune. She chose her career over the miserable prospects that awaited her in our town.

I wasn’t even surprised.

Her career was stellar, as expected. She was promoted to soloist within months and soon became the company’s youngest prima ballerina. She travelled the world and I quietly watched her progress.

Ballet careers are short, though. Hers lasted a dozen years. She never told me why she returned to Hasetsu instead of staying in Tokyo, or going abroad, to teach ballet or work as a choreographer. But I could guess. Until my son became a champion, she was our town’s only claim to glory. It was better to be a celebrity there than an anonymous ex-dancer in the capital.

So, she came back. She opened her studio and her little bar. She worked hard. But she was struggling. She drank too much. She still does.

It would have been, of course, both unseemly and bad business for her to drink on her own premises. So when she needed a drink, she came to our place. I was glad she did, because then I could watch over her. And she watched over my son. She gave him a space of his own, where he could remove himself when his sister’s bossiness was too much for him to endure. We never talked of our feelings, past or present, but – if friendship is a kind of love, we never stopped loving each other.

And now we are standing side by side, alone under the moon. Our giggly mood has evaporated in its silver light.

‘Thank you for asking Yuri to dance with me,’ she says. ‘This means a lot.’

‘I didn’t ask him,’ I answer, my heart again swelling with pride. ‘It was his own idea.’

A long silence. She is looking towards the trees on the other side of the pond.

‘I wish he had been _our_ son.’

Oh! This was unexpected. But I know what to answer. I always knew.

‘But he was! He _is_.’ This truth is clear to me. ‘You mothered him where I could not.’

I had a family to look after and a business to run. Toshiya helped, I’m not saying he didn’t, but he needed guidance. He would have been lost without me, and the hotel with him. I took care of everyday practicalities; my friend took care of my boy’s talent.

‘Really?’ she whispers.

‘Of course,’ I answer. ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank _you_.’

The night is waning. We inhale the cool silence.

‘The hour is late, but the moon is still very beautiful,’ she says quietly, turning to me.

I raise my face to her.

‘It is indeed,’ I answer, looking into her eyes.

***

The women leave. The rhythm of their footsteps is different now, there is an urgency in it, and they do not go back inside through the terrace. They turn around the corner of the building, obviously heading towards the main entrance.

Huh.

Now it is _really_ high time for me to return to our guests. But I choose a different route, walking back towards the terrace. Standing there are Leo and Helene. They are kissing like crazy and don’t even notice me.

Entering, I cast a quick glance around the room.

With the removal of Yura, Mila lost an object of interest. Now she is busy with Mr Morooka. He seems to be chatting her up. He is a very youthful forty – damn the Japanese, how _do_ they do that? – and she is not averse.

Georgiy and Michele are having a transcendental heart-to-heart in a quiet corner. I have no idea in which language they are having it, but they seem satisfied, so I don’t interfere.

Michele has his back to the room, which is good, because he can’t see his sister. Sara is obviously into Asians now, because she is flirting with Minami in a way that is nothing less than shameful. I wouldn’t touch Minami with a stick, but generally I can’t say I blame her, I’m into Asians myself. The youngster seems a little stunned but is holding his own. He is actually not squealing. Go Sara.

Phichit and Sumalee are flirting, too. Yuko and Takeshi seem to have gone to bed. So have Nadya and Garik, probably with a different purpose. I saw them growing very, er, affectionate before I left the room.

Yakov is dancing with Lilya. They look very good together and… wait a sec! They too seem to be flirting! I haven’t seen them this lovey-dovey since I was twenty, maybe twenty-one. What’s going on here? Wedding nights seem to have a magic to them.

Which turns my thoughts to my own newly espoused. Where is Yuri? And, by the way, why am I even checking on the guests? Keeping the party running smoothly is the job of the best man. Where is Chris?

Ah. Dance floor.

Ah. With my husband. How nice to find both of my lost treasures at the same time.

Good heavens. Whoever let them dance together? Thank God there’s nothing that can be used as a pole in this room. In the entire hotel, in fact. I actually checked when I made the reservation. Otabek is leaning against the wall, watching them with benevolent disgust.

The rest of the older generation seems to be faltering. Gerry Parnell has gone home; he is teetotal, God help him, and drove up here. Nikolai Petrovich is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Ciao-ciao. Katsuki Senior has drunk his fill, sang a song or two (ah, I know now: Yuri has his voice) and went to sleep, his head on the table. He tried to drink with the Russians, poor thing. Katsuki Junior, being an honorary Russian, knew better than to try.

This is why he and my best man are now twisting and turning on the dance floor, rubbing butts and casting expectant looks in my direction. I gallop, whether to join them or separate them I really don’t know.

How much did _I_ have to drink?

***

The young things having a good time all around us are in love, most of them, and far too excited about it to stop and think that a woman my age, a mother to one of their bunch, could yearn for this joy as much as they do.

And that’s all right. Because, as we walk up to Minako’s room, we can do it in plain view. We don’t need to hide. We are past fifty; we are invisible.

We calmly take the main stairs.

We have just finished a kiss that had been left unfinished thirty-five years ago and when she asked ‘Would you like to see what we have missed?’, I did not hesitate.

She is skeletal, her hipbones jutting and every rib distinct under my fingers, and I am fat and flabby, stretch marks silvery on my skin, and as we discover one another, we laugh at the contrast. We are far too old and far too easy with each other to be embarrassed. Her flat chest fits comfortably against my general softness. Her warmth, and wetness, and squelchiness are familiar, just like mine; what is new is the salt, the pleasure, and the sense of completion.

***

Yakov and Lilya have said good night. Not at the same time, mind you, a diplomatic ten minutes between their exits, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they ended up together tonight.

Mila is nowhere to be seen. Neither is Morooka.

In fact, the room is almost empty.

We are sitting together at the table, myself, Yuri, Chris and Otabek. Chris fetched us a bottle of champagne – trust him to get hold of the last one available on the premises – and we are sharing it as the final drink of the night; an odd foursome in which to end this special day, two unattached men and two very attached ones. We banter lazily, switching between English, French and Russian with ease. Yuri is three-quarters to being wasted, Chris ditto. Myself, I’ve been worse, but I can already see the Kazakh will be the last man standing.

Yuri lost his jacket somewhere and his tie is askew. I take it off him and put it round his head, tying it artistically at the side, one end hanging down to his shoulder. Then I lean back to admire my handiwork.

‘Suits you.’

He grumbles wordlessly, but he leaves it on.

‘Make this your costume next season,’ says Chris. ‘Theme: I’m sexy.’

‘Shut up,’ says Yuri good-naturedly.

‘A brilliant idea!’ I applaud. ‘You could skate in a sort of a reeling way.’

‘Remind me, Victor: why did I marry you?’ Yuri frowns. ‘There must have been a reason.’

‘I fuck you senseless, I make you laugh and I make you money.’ I grin at him. ‘And why did _I_ marry _you_?’

‘I fuck you senseless, I make you laugh and I make you _katsudon_ ,’ he retorts grimly. ‘But why I do this, I cannot tell. You’re insufferable.’

This exchange earns a tired sigh from Altin and a face-palm from Giacometti.

‘ _Mon Dieu_. I hope I never fall in love. It turns even relatively intelligent men into goofs.’

I only smile. I know he would like to. He told me once, in a moment of weakness, that watching Yuri and me he had understood he wanted more from life that just a procession of lovers, and that he started looking for a nice boy to, well, try to hold on to.

‘Forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing,’ quotes Otabek, surprising me, since I know he is Muslim. ‘They are… _intoxicated_ , Christophe.’

Chris snorts. I nod appreciatively.

‘Not true! _Ya kak steklo_ ,’ avows Yuri, who missed the reference. He gets up, sways a little, thereby eloquently disproving his claim, which is that he is entirely sober, and glances at me. ‘Uh… _Nondeshimatta_ ,’ he admits apologetically.

‘Yes, I know. You look adorable.’

I love him like this, all dishevelled and blushed. Only when I am present, though. He gets a little out of control when he’s had a drop too much. But now he is past that stage, he will collapse soon, from tiredness as much as from drink, and I will carry him upstairs to our bed. Thank God there’s an elevator.

‘Come, sweetheart, dance with me.’

And this man, who all night has been the life and soul of the party, suddenly goes all soft against me, lays his head on my shoulder, closes his eyes and murmurs, ‘I love you.’

A few bars of the music later he sleepily adds, ‘My husband’, giving me my new name for the first time. In the morning he won’t remember he said it. Still, it feels wonderful to hear these words. I hope he’ll be still calling me that when I’m on my deathbed.

I hold him one-armed, sipping my champagne.

My repeated attempts to convince all and sundry that they are seeing the birth of a new me – that today’s ceremony will have transformed me into a serious, sober, sedate bloke – have met with mockery and derision. Eh. Well. I did not believe in this myself. I am happy in the knowledge that after tonight, nothing will change. We will continue the same crazy duo we have been for the last two years.

And yet everything will change. Tomorrow I will greet him with a ‘Good morning, husband’, he will grumble, for he will be impressively hung-over, I will bring him soured milk, which I bought at a Russian deli specially for the purpose, and maybe – just maybe – he will let me make love to him, gently and with much attention to his aching head, and thus we will begin our life as a married couple.

I smile to myself. I am the luckiest man in the world.

And in this very moment, gazing dreamily over his raven head, I see Mother enter the room and look round, blinking her eyes in the light, even though it is subdued. And I must forcibly suppress my eyebrow as it threatens to shoot up in surprise. Because, well, Yuri has his father’s voice, but otherwise he is very like his mum. They have the same eyes, the same smile. And let me tell you one thing: I know a satisfied Katsuki face when I see it. And I am seeing it now, somewhat older but unmistakable.

Who would have thought…

For a moment I feel like raising my glass to her, but… no. This is, after all, my mother-in-law and it would be neither nice nor wise to let her know I noticed her indiscretion. It is truly none of my business.

So I raise only a _mental_ glass.

***

The boys are swaying on the dance floor, nestled into each other and happily drunk.

I am watching them, savouring my feeling of bittersweet fulfilment.

We missed our chance, Minako and I, or perhaps we never had it, one too timid to fight, the other too greedy to forgo. We will never know how our lives would have unfolded had we defied our families and the even more inexorable customs. As things are, after tonight nothing is going to change.

What happened was not a beginning, but a closure, a belated ending to an old love story; an ending that could have happened only on this special night because, deep down, it was a celebration not of ourselves, but of the boy who could not be our son… yet was.

Yuri and Victor are swaying on the dance floor. I wish that I had known such love as theirs. I feel a single tear rolling down my cheek and I think, all gods bless you, my sons, may you always be as happy as you are now. Hold each other close and never let go.

Just be happy, my sons, be happy.

I am about to turn away, go find my husband and get on with the rest of my life when I see my daughter Mari.

She is standing a little outside, on the terrace, washed in the silver glow of the dawning day. In her pale _tomesode_ she looks like a ghost. She is exactly on the opposite side of the dance floor from me and I cannot tell whether she is looking at the boys or at me. We are equally in her line of sight.

So she is looking at them. Or she is looking at me.

And there is so much hatred in her face that my heart freezes.

 

_– finis –_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now finished.  
> ***  
> Don't forget me, though. I intend to begin posting the second volume of "Gains and Losses" in November. It will be a celebration of mature love, of the awareness that comes with age, and of the sense of humour that will carry Yuri and Victor through all the trials of life.


End file.
